


Undeniably Yours

by iamthewordshaker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthewordshaker/pseuds/iamthewordshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're not entirely sure what this is or how it always ends up like this. Roxy goes out drinking, you chase her down, and she drunkenly makes a few mistakes neither of you will talk about in the morning.</p>
<p>But there always is a morning, and maybe that's all either of you need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undeniably Yours

"Dance with me."

You know she won't make it a few steps without stumbling over her own two feet—feet that are bare, because the tequila told her shoes are uncomfortable and, besides, walking around in heels is difficult enough as it is when sober—and it has to be the alcohol talking, especially with the way she grabs your hands and plants them on her hips. She reaches around your neck with one hand, fingers combing through the short hairs on the back of your neck, while the other messily splays across your cheek. Her thumb dusts across the bridge of your nose, tracing a line of faint freckles, before breaking the trance and snatching your glasses to shove them in your back pocket.

"Roxy," you say, the warning only half-hearted.

"You know how to dance, right?" she slurs, her free hand joining the other behind your neck. Your hands are on her hips, fingers resting lightly above the waistband of her skirt, and hers are locked behind your neck. Nevertheless, neither of you are moving.

You're not entirely sure what this is or how it always ends up like this. Roxy goes out drinking, you chase her down, and she drunkenly makes a few mistakes neither of you will talk about in the morning.

But there always _is_ a morning, and maybe that's all either of you need.

She lightly bumps her head into your chest and you both begin moving in a slow circle. She stumbles more than once, feet struggling to keep up with her brain, but you manage somewhat of a tempo, as slow as it may be. She closes her eyes, eyelashes fluttering slightly, like she's falling asleep, and lets out a few incoherent mumbles.

"I can't understand what you're saying, y'know."

She lets out a sharp laugh that cracks in the silence like a whip. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

Eventually, she grows tired of tripping and stumbling. She stands on your own feet, frantically grabbing your shirt and hair— _ow_ —until she regains her balance. Your arms wrap around her instinctively, tightening and accidentally pressing your bodies together. Thankfully, she releases her death grip and instead balls her hands up in the front of your shirt in addition to lightly punching you. She laughs again before muffling it, body shaking and face pressed into your chest.

"Roxy," you sigh, because you don't need to feel the wetness on your shirt or see the mascara trailing down her cheeks to know the problem.

"S-shit," she says, hiccuping and trembling. "Dirk— _fuck_ —"

She abruptly pushes away from you and stumbles onto the small patch of grass the landscapers spared when paving the land over before subsequently vomiting.

You've done this enough to know the drill. You comb her hair away from her face as best as you can, holding it with one hand while the other rubs her back reassuringly. You whisper things she can't actually comprehend in her deplorable condition, but they might to reassure you rather than her. Either way, you don't really care at this point.

When she finishes, she's crying even more, gross sobs that echo loudly. You pull off your jacket and drape it around her shoulders before picking her up bridal style. She curls against your chest and you put her in the passenger seat of your car. She might be sleeping, eyes closed and only the soft hiccups interrupting her smooth breathing, but you kiss her forehead anyways.

It's always up to you to get her home safely, but you don't really mind.

* * *

In the morning, she's not there. It takes a quick sweep of the house to confirm this and only then do you notice a sticky note on your computer monitor that, in her messy, loopy handwriting, simply reads:

> secret rendezvous at starbucks xoxo  
> if youre not there by 10 im leaving 

A quick glance at the clock says you don't have enough time for a shower. Still, you quickly change into something that looks and smells clean and high-five Lil Cal on your way out. It takes ten minutes to reach the Starbucks she's talking about. It isn't the one closest to your house, but it's her favorite because the walls are open windows for the most part, and a seat in the corner gives her a good view of the city blocks.

It's 10:07 when you reach the place and goddamn if you aren't worried she's already gone. There aren't many places she could go, but you figure this meeting has to do more about serious topics and less about coffee. A bell rings as you push the door open and inside, a gentle hum of conversation greets you, along with the strong smell of coffee. You scan the tables near the corner of the café, a bit disappointed when you don't spot her immediately. You walk a little closer until—

"There you are," you say, ignoring the relief that blooms in your chest. She's sitting in a table against the wall, curled up and probably sleeping. You sit down across from her and she lets out a quiet groan. "How's the hangover?"

She groans again, peeking up at you from the inside of her elbow, and blinks a few times. Her hair's pulled back in a loose ponytail, some strands falling in her face, and there are bags underneath her eyes. It doesn't look like she slept much, which is expected given the time you found her wandering the streets. With her bitten lips and pale skin, you realize she's beautiful.

"About time you got here," she mumbles, squinting against the light.

"Yeah. I just woke up." You roll your shoulders before asking, "Any particular reason you brought me here?"

She shrugs, posture deflating considerably, and rests her cheek on an arm. Her fingers start drumming on the table, the only thing to fill in the awkward silence that follows. She avoids looking at you, instead staring directly at her empty cup of coffee in front of her.

Without warning, you catch her hand in yours, stilling the tapping.

"Relax, Roxy," you mutter.

She looks at you for a brief second and back at your hands before squeezing experimentally. You don't flinch, don't pull away, just simply refuse to move away. She lets out a small huff—something that could be a laugh or a sigh, you can't really tell—before relaxing again.

"So..." Her voice trails off, although she sounds strangely expectant. Hopeful, even.

It's hard to believe that this is the same girl you saw last night.

"So," you prompt, straightening slightly. "Are you free Friday night?"


End file.
